Stories.

1. The beauty of a well-told story is that it can function on many levels: a story told to a child probably has a surface plot and the ability to entertain - this is why children like being told stories; at the same time, however, a well-crafted story typically has a secondary meaning that lies below the surface. Thus, a story can entertain, while at the same time communicating values or provoking thought.

2. Again, a well-told story has the ability to function on multiple levels. As children grow up into young adults, they usually become better equipped to understand the deeper and more complicated levels within a story. They are also able to understand and appreciate stories that are deeper and more complex. A well-crafted book can provoke deeper thought and provide insight into the why's and how's of the world.

3. Throughout history, books have served as an outlet for political and social concerns, as well as a tool for crafting a national identity. In the late 18th century, the German intellectual Johann Herder coined the term volksgeist, meaning "the genius of the people". Herder and other Europeans of the 18th and 19th centuries believed that the collective literature of a nation's common people is what ultimately determined that nation's spirit and identity. Through written works, writers are able to represent the concerns, beliefs, values, and attitude of the nation as a whole.

4. A well-written story should have, first of all, well-developed and well-conceptualized characters. The characters should exhibit versimilitude and should function similarly to a real person put in their situation might; characters should also have emotional depth and complexity (the degree of which depends on the length of the story). If characters are unbelievable or lacking in complexity, the reason why should be evident and understandable.

A high-caliber story should also have a clever and complex plot (again, the degree of which depends on the length of the story). The events at the center of the action should be interesting should propel the plot forward. If plot events are resolved too soon, the story will have nowhere to go; on the other hand, if the plot events are not resolved or drag on too long, readers will lose interest, the story will be ultimately unsatisfying, and the theme will probably be unclear.

A story of literary merit should also have a vividly depicted setting. If the reader cannot envision the place in which the plot events are occuring, he or she will likely feel alienated and estranged. It's important to create a world that is plausible - one that draws the reader in. The world in which the story is set should be rich and pictorial.

Finally, and arguably most importantly, a good story should effectively communicate an original theme. The story should have significance beyond the literal surface meaning that it communicates. Whether it provides insight, communicates values, conveys a social or political concern, the writing should establish something deeper than its literal plot.

Is Anything?

Cars drift in and out of this luxurious bubble, suspended above the city streets. Beautiful people drift in and out the cars, floating through time and space, elegant and divine. I'm shivering on the street, looking up at a high rise New York apartment, and I can't stop, even though the air possess the warmth of every beautiful June night. My foot finds the first step leading to the apartment door, and I allow myself to be drawn up, carried along with all the people. Someone hands me a martini glass, and I politely and casually accept the drink; I sip urbanely and eloquently, I drink with the elegance of all the wealth around me. A beautiful young women sits on a couch, alternately smoking a cigarette and sipping her highball. As the warmth of the stars falls through the window, it casts a soft luminescence across her and all the other people in the flat. This little bubble - this little world - is positively aglow.

The year is 1926, and it's a beautiful night. I've been in this city for the past few weeks, and I plan on staying for a while longer. When I find myself moved, I suppose I'll find somewhere else to take root - at least for a little while. I've never been comfortable with the idea of staying anywhere too long; I imagine myself as a transient image, flitting in and out of the still air of whatever glowing city possesses my soul at that particular moment. I see people, or things - anything really, anything that intrigues me - and I let it draw me up into... whatever it is. And then I stay there for awhile, soaking in the images and the vibrancy of my surroundings. And then I move on. My life is fleeting, but I don't mind the impermanence. After all, is anything really permanent?

hello, how are you?

hello, how are you?

this fear of being what they are:
dead.

at least they are not out on the street, they
are careful to stay indoors, those
pasty mad who sit alone before their tv sets,
their lives full of canned, mutilated laughter.

their ideal neighborhood
of parked cars
of little green lawns
of little homes
the little doors that open and close
as their relatives visit
throughout the holidays
the doors closing
behind the dying who die so slowly
behind the dead who are still alive
in your quiet average neighborhood
of winding streets
of agony
of confusion
of horror
of fear
of ignorance.

a dog standing behind a fence.

a man silent at the window.

by Charles Bukowski
http://bukowski.net/poems/hello_how_are_you.php

From the first time I read Post Office, I have loved Charles Bukowski. I am intrigued by his sardonic wit and blisteringly sharp eye for social criticisim. This poem in particular exemplifies the attributes of Bukowski's poetry that make him great.

Even the title, the seemingly simple question "how are you?", is brutally sarcastic. After reading the poem - a story of "dead" individuals, hiding from the agony and confusion of the real world, and thereby perpetuating the fear and ignorance in this world - we see a deeper layer to the question the title poses. By juxtaposing the simplicity and innocence of the title with the harsh accusations the poem expresses, Bukowski emphasises the sharp contrast between "their ideal neighborhood[s]" and the confused world they are hiding from.

The frequent appearance of anaphora in this poem helps craft an image of a dark and frightening world - an image central to Bukowski's message. His repetitive use of the word "of" allows him to effectively create a catalogue of attributes applying to the world as he perceives it. The catalogue seems all the more overwhelming and overbearing for the repetitive nature in which it is presented. Through his image of the "man silent at the window" and the "dog standing behind a fence", Bukowski emphasises the idea of people perpuating their own ignorance by hiding from the world in which they live.

Bukowski also treats the idea of "death" as a metaphor for the condition of the people whom he criticizes. For Bukowski, hiding from the darker aspects of life is a condition equivalent to dying; Bukowski accuses people of being trapped indoors, slave to the "canned, mutilated laughter" of their televisions.

Bukowski is using an evidently sarcastic and ironic tone, immediately cemented in the innocence of his title juxtaposed with the darker nature of his poem. He maintains the sardonic quality to his tone by continuing to juxtapose images with positive connotations against images with negative connotions: the "ideal neighborhood" with its "parked cars", "little green lawns", etc., in contrast with "the dead" and "the dying", the "winding streets", "agony", "confusion", etc. By identifying an ironic discrepancy he perceives between "ideal" neighborhoods and the agonistic world, Bukowski sardonically calls for a heightened awareness of reality.

Home.

I was born in a small house in a small town in the South. I opened my eyes, and I saw nothing, only darkness. I cried out for something that I had no words for, and it held me and comforted me. I felt safe. I knew where I belonged, and I felt like I could wrap my hands around it and call it my own. I felt like I could take it with me, or rather, it could take me with it. At this juncture in time, I became acquainted with a feeling that I would learn to call "home". They told me it was a place, but I knew better - I knew it was a feeling. I stopped crying and I went to sleep.

I grew older and went to school, and I found my home in books. Numbers frustrated me, grammar bored me, social studies bored me - I was always either frustrated or bored. Things either came intuitively, in which case I couldn't understand why we were studying it, or else I just couldn't wrap my head around what the teacher wrote on the chalk board. Other times, I just couldn't make myself care about it. I wanted nothing to do with anything - anything, that is, except my books.

School houses were small, one-room buildings back then, but I could still usually manage to hide in the back and just read. Sometimes, when I didn't feel like reading I would dip my pen in the ink well and draw pictures that I could see in my head. Eventually, I combined my two interests and began writing stories and illustrating them. I wrote, and I drew, and it contented me. I grew older, and I felt more and more at home with my hobby.

As I grew older and more mature, I came to understand the value of an education. Although I wasn't particularly interested, I began to pay attention in math, and I began to pay attention in social studies. I wasn't particularly interested in either, but I excelled in both. Still, I felt at home in my books and my drawings. After some thought, I came to understand what I had known all along: home isn't a place, but a feeling. I knew were my home was, and so that's where I decided I would live.

Michael as a Reader; Michael as a Writer.

I've been reading for a long time, and writing for about as long. From a young age, I've been interested in books. My third grade teacher held a meeting with myself and my mother about my reading during her class; I was never particularly interested in whatever was going on, and I always felt that my time would be better spent immersed in a good book.

Of course with age has come maturity, and I now have a better grasp of the value education; still, I do love a good book. In particular, I'm drawn toward dystopian fiction. I love Ray Bradbury, George Orwell, and Aldous Huxley. It's hard for me to choose a specific book and label it as my favorite, but, if forced to, I think I would choose Huxley's Brave New World. I also enjoy music that deals with similar themes: The Arcade Fire's Neon Bible and Radiohead's OK Computer and Kid A are all favorite albums of mine.

Aside from dystopian fiction, I really enjoy writing from the Romantic period, particularly Nathaniel Hawthorne - it's probably due to him that my writing tends to be so verbose. I also love Steinbeck, Fitzgerald, Shaw, and Murakami, just to name a few. It would take an extensive list to cover all my favorite authors, but that may give you an idea of what I enjoy.

When I write outside of class, I tend to write poetry, specifically song lyrics. I write music somewhere in the vein of Conor Oberst, Bob Dylan, Belle and Sebastian, or The Decemberists - or some combination thereof. I also occasionally write non-music-oriented poetry, as well as short narratives and prose. I enjoy writing, and I do it relatively frequently.

Persisting Over Mountains, Rivers, Fields, Vallies, and Time.

Many great works of literature derive their greatness from their ability to depict life in a certain era. In Tom Sawyer, Mark Twain brilliantly painted a portrait of life for a small town, southern, white boy in the early twentieth century; August Wilson created a series of ten plays, each one tied to a specific time period; the beat authors and poets - Jack Kerouac, Allen Ginsberg,
William S. Burroughs, etc. - all helped to chisel out a distinct niche for the counterculture of their decade. While all these literary works can be considered great, the thing that truly makes them enduring - the thing that keeps them from being cast into obsolescence by their ties to the antiquated past - is their ability to communicate a universal message. A piece of literary work can be tied to a specific era, but in order to transcend the time barrier and remain loved for centuries to come, the piece must explore issues and questions that will extend past the time of the author. Walt Whitman dealt with the idea of a universal oversoul; he believed that all people, regardless of their geographic or chronological location, are tied together by simple pleasures and timeless themes, which will persist until the end of time. While few people have had to deal with the duplicity of Injun Joe, almost everyone can relate to Tom Sawyer's childish curiosity, boyhood bravery, and impecable sense of adventure. Time transcendent topics such as these have the ability to make a work last forever.

Empathy.

In today's world, especially at the high school level, many people lack empathy. The ability to understand and respect other people's actions and beliefs is an ability that develops slowly (if at all) as a person gains maturity and experience. It is easy for us to look at the problems in our own lives and feel sorry for ourselves; however, applying that experience to others and then using this consideration as an opportunity for growth is something that does not come as naturally. Although most ten-year-olds do not have the emotional maturity to feel truly empathetic toward other human beings, I do not think that it is unreasonable to believe that empathy may start to develop at such an early age. If I had to give advice to a ten-year-old, I would urge him or her to try to see the world from someone else's point of view - to understand why people do what they do. It's often hard to grasp the motivation behind people's actions, but I think that considering such things in everything I see or read - fiction or otherwise - can help to make me a better person.

The Playwrite.

Certain aspects of writing a play proved to be easier than I expected, while other parts proved to be more difficult. Overall though, it was a rewarding experience. The daunting five page limit was not as difficult to reach as I expected; the writing tended to flow pretty well. Sometimes it was difficult to create realistic dialogue and to shape my characters in a nonblatant way, but I felt that in the end my characters possessed adequate depth and intrigue and were characterized in a relatively subtle way. Playwriting can be frustrating in its evident set limitations, but it also allows one to stretch his or her creative abilities, as well as to communicate a message through a simpler form than might be expected in, for instance, a movie or a television show. I prefer writing prose fiction and poetry as opposed to playwriting, so I doubt that I will experiment extensively in playwriting and in its sister forms, screenwriting and television script writing; however, I may be interested in trying them out, just to expand my creative horizons.

Conflict and Compromise pt. II.

Due to the nature of the theme I want to express (see my previous post), I don't think I would want to make the conflict of my play very action oriented. The theme I would like to communicate revolves mostly around an internal discrepancy; this necessitates that my conflict remains mostly internal. The protagonist of my play will be a man of about twenty-five years living in a city, painting and attempting to sell his work. Throughout the course of the play, it will become apparent that the man is troubled by the degree to which he feels he's dependent upon other people's monetary encouragement. Eventually he will come to the realization that there's nothing wrong with wanting to feel appreciated. Because I plan on my play functioning mainly as an exploration of a young man's psychological functions, it will probably be best to present my play as a conversation between two people. The conflict I have in mind is internal, so it would be easiest to communicate through conversation as opposed to physical action.

Conflict and Compromise.

Life as an artist would be one of the most difficult conditions one could subject themselves to. When an individual decides to pursue some artistic endeavor as his professional trade - be it painting, writing, or singing - presumably that individual enjoys that particular artistic medium. Imagine, for instance, that a person loves to paint. This person loves to paint so much, in fact, that he decides to become a painter. This would seem ideal for that particular person - he loves to paint, and now he will attempt to make a livelihood from it. This will, however, bring out an uncomfortable dilemma that's inherent in almost any artistic form: the painter paints, we can assume, for his own enjoyment; but at the same time, he would like his paintings to appeal to his audience. Every time someone buys one of his paintings, they are, in a sense, affirming what he's doing; they're letting him know that they appreciate his work. Now the painter has two masters to please: he wants his paintings to simply be a vent for his own feelings - a way for him pursue his artistic values; but, at the same time, he craves the external support, encouragement, and affirmation of his audience. From personal experience, I understand the difficulties that this mindset presents. As an artist, one must reconcile his own artistic vision with the desires of his audience. An artist has to realize that it's O.K. to desire that external affirmation from an audience; but also, an artist must do this without compromising his artistic values.

The Stem of Greatness.

Greatness, in itself, is entirely relative. One thing may be greater than another - that does not necessarily make it great; similarly, one thing may be great, but not as great as another thing. Greatness is essentially a continuous spectrum, and, as such, it is hard to define where exactly greatness begins. Also, greatness is not an objective matter by any means - one man's garbage may very well be another man's concept of ideal beauty. There is no work of art which is "universally great" - that is, a piece of art that affects every person in the exact same way. Hemingway and Faulkner are two of the most loved and hated authors in existence, depending on whom you speak to.

Although greatness is both relative and subjective, nothing may truly be "great" in any sense of the word without having any semblance of meaning, message, or theme. A work of literature may be great in one person's eyes, but not in another's. The greatness perceived in a work of art stems from the way in which the theme of the writing speaks to the reader. In order for a person to consider a piece of writing great, he or she must be deeply affected by that piece of writing; when a reader encounters a great written work, it often awakens some sort of deep emotional response within his or her soul. As a result of this emotional response, the reader is able to learn something new about his or herself; he or she may possibly learn something new about an even bigger subject - perhaps humanity itself. It is this potential to inspire intellectual growth that sets apart the greatest of literary works.

Giants to Stand On.

I mentioned earlier that science is built on the shoulders of giants. Along those lines, I think the most important thing to an artist - aside from what he creates, of course - is what he draws from. When I contemplate my aesthetic values, I often ask myself: What do I love? What do I admire? What is it that makes me want to create? What is it about that thing that makes me want to create? A diversity of influences is something that's always been important to me; I think that the best way to create something original - the best way to keep from rearticulating ideas that I respect - is to maintain a diverse pool of inspiration to draw from. As such, it's difficult for me to say, "This is the piece of art that has inspired me the most. This is what drives my creative process." I could easily name one hundred songs, images, poems, and books that have been equally impactive in my life.

That having been said, lately I've been really fascinated with James Joyce's A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man. At heart, it's a coming of age novel - the story of Stephen Dedalus' journey towards an aesthetic awakening. Dedalus is repressed by religious guilt, and weary of Irish politics and nationalism; he believes that all of these factors weighing down on his mind repress him artistically, and he wishes to be free of their binds. Not only does Joyce do a brilliant job in his exploration of the religious guilt and political weariness that permeates Dedalus' existence, Joyce also takes the traditional coming of age type novel and explodes its form, pushing the very boundaries of what literature can be - something that hadn't been done to such an extent before 1916, the time of the novel's publication. A Portrait of the Artist is one of the most beautiful and powerful novels I've ever read, with extremely profound implications, especially in regards to aesthetic philosophy and to Joyce's consideration of the Roman Catholic faith.

The Bloodthirsty Television Generation.

Kids are starving in Africa; people are routinely being raped in Darfur. Our political standing as a country is in the process of plummeting. The world market seems to be on the verge of a recession. Maybe I should be ashamed, then, that when I'm asked what it is that concerns me the most, the first thing that comes to mind is the contemporary condition of pop culture. Still, I can't quell my disdain for what they play on the radio today, what the major record labels try to force down our throats, and the types of books that make the New York Times bestsellers list. I have mixed feelings about the decentralization of art that's occurring in this digital age of pirated movies, books, and music, but I definitely don't think that taking power from the hands of the record label giants would be a bad thing. Point in case: Soulja Boy. Why is everyone so taken by that superman song, when hardly anyone has even heard of Saddle Creek? And it isn't just bad taste -- I think the problem runs far deeper than that. Why do so many people watch Desperate Housewives? We pretend like Britney Spears is something to be ashamed of, but secretly, we're just a bloodythirsty television generation; the only thing we love more than a rags to riches story is a tabloid article about a giant toppling to the ground. No one could get enough of the Enron scandal, and I refuse to believe our fascination is a product of pure concern. No, our generation is a bloodythirsty one; it's sad, and it's something that has got to change.

Originality is a Relative Term.

They say science is built upon the shoulders of giants, so it makes sense that one can't be a writer without being a reader. I'm not saying that all writers are just restating the things they've read, necessarily, but I don't believe that one can be entirely independent of some sort of outside influence. The greatest pieces of art build upon ideas previously articulated, somehow developing and changing those ideas until they become "original"; although these ideas have existed for years, perhaps even centuries, the contemporary artist is able to take these dated thoughts and, drawing from their substance, create something new. I refuse to believe, for instance, that James Joyce wrote A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man without having read Plato's Republic, or at least without having heard of his theory of forms. I don't believe that any idea can be truly original in the sense that it was crafted out of thin air; rather, any great idea is, in reality, a reworking or an extension of a thought having been articulated previously. Hunter S. Thompson frequently cited Tom Wolfe as a dominating influence; almost every indie band of the 90's refers themselves back to My Bloody Valentine; almost every band from the 70's onward refers themselves back to either Elvis or The Beatles. The point is, if a writer doesn't read, he's limiting himself severely in terms of the clay with which he crafts his art.